


My pilgrimage’s last mile

by middlemarch



Category: Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Ficlet, Grief/Mourning, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 14:41:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11292789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: What she lost, what was taken, what remained.





	My pilgrimage’s last mile

She didn’t miss a wedding, a ceremony Steve said was all lace and flowers, twittering and punch sadly lacking Champagne; there was nothing like that on Themyscira. She didn’t miss a courtship with dance-cards and billet-doux, she didn’t miss babies in their swaddles, their baby, couldn’t miss the hope of seeing the shape of his lips in a small face, the color of his eyes in ones like hers, his gaze meeting hers over a hungry newborn at her breast. It was nothing to her that they would never stand together in the Louvre, Victoria and Albert, the Metropolitan, seeing something made by men that the gods could not better, that they could never share that ephemeral moment of delight. She would never be a bride, a wife, a mother but she had been a friend, a comrade, a lover, not of men but of this one man. She had seen his face when he learned to trust her, when she had startled him from complacency and when he had failed to convince her; she knew how his eyes looked blind with completion, the tender sound of his voice in her ear when he regained himself, how he had asked quite simply if he had satisfied her and how she had known he would not sleep until she had answered yes. Diana knew how it felt to fall asleep in his arms and what it cost him. She knew the strength of his shoulders holding a shield for her to vault from into battle and the way he listened to Etta and Chief. She had his father’s watch and the memory of him as the snow fell, he visited in dreams and offered her the cup of herb tea he learned she preferred to coffee unless she was in Paris, she had flesh that still felt his hands, the rasp of his unshaven cheek, the flare of his hip under her hooked thigh. She was a woman and an Amazon, a goddess and a widow, she would never be without him. She was alone.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from John Donne's Holy Sonnets "This is my play's last scene."


End file.
